she is-
red like autumn leaves
lashes skirting fair skies and
a white birch shell
in her cool breeze you will shiver
and your skin will turn bumpy.

you knew her as a little boy.
she, your favorite term
whose embrace once wrapped you up, unprejudiced.
her, a friend and Season,
her passing perfume then
didn’t mind that you were alien.

you know her, still a little boy
as you remember how she was

and see how pretty she is now
how good she smells like fallen leaves.
how her cherry boughs smile
and how her crisp air clings about
your thin and lonely body with ease.

how happy for a while she’ll make you.

as for me, I can have no argument-
I have no leaves to show for.
I am made of only bark
I am so damp and bitter-smelling
like death and dark and Winter’s biting
I am not beautiful with color;
I am barren
and though I too can make you shiver,
my cold will always grab your bones.

Money muffles passion, you see.
We cling to it, weeping,
leaking weird nouns and verbs
about how we cherish
the cool cocoon of cold hard cash,
forgetting about the shallow grave
where we killed and buried our art.

We forget, amidst the chatter
and the chaos and the fodder
and become an only sometimes-true friend
to our notebook and our paintbrush;
we become the boring, wretched thing
we used to hate for being false
and turn ugly, quickly.

It’s terrifying the flip-flops
that a rumbling hunger will make.